preztail!

what would gotham lay her hands out and present to the so-called winners? what constituted winning?

it was far too complicated, in your humble thirteen year old opinion, and your sociology teacher was beginning to sound like static; rivalled only by the repetitive ticking of a clock hanging on the classroom’s wall.

you agreed though; gotham was good— no, great— at pretending.

beneath the lies, there was grit. violent and suffocating. hardwired into the veins of almost every gothamite, life in the city was less like the american dream and more like a battle for survival. innocent people were ground beneath the sole of gotham’s heels, into nothing but wasted potential and melancholy.

( “nobody is going to survive in this city if they don’t work hard,” your father’s voice echoed within your dining room. the scrape of his cutlery against the porcelain of your mother’s fine china was more comforting than his stern lectures-- voice bellowing throughout your home. "that's why you have to make the most of you education," your name crashed onto the dining table roughly, "bring forth success to our family."

you had always hated family dinners. )

it was hard for you, most days, to see the good in gotham. to see what was so alluring, so captivating, so blinding to the rest of the world. the streets were riddled in crime and tragedy, barely hidden by sky-scrapers going up, up, and up as far as the eye could see.

but some days-- on the odd day-- gotham would prove herself to you.

not in her whispers of wealth, or affirmations rooted in bright futures-- but in the silence of everyday that was so wonderfully loud.

your vision flicked towards one of the classroom windows-- a good seventy-five percent of it taken up by a mature oak tree decorated in a myriad of orange, yellow, and burgundy leaves.

fall had begun its descent to gotham, and she suddenly hadn't seemed so bad. the air was crisp-- cool enough to bring along a shiver, warm enough with its remnants of summer-- and the rain was slowly becoming heavier, colder, and brighter; falling with purpose, to blanket the streets in white.

falling with purpose.

despite the adversity gothamites often faced, their city did not gift just for the sake of it-- it was always with purpose.

she gave back to those least expectant, though most in need. little by little, filling their jar and taking it from half-empty to half-full.

the city was cruel in more ways than you could count-- but like you had said: she was astounding at pretending.

a leaf, singular and minute, snapped from a branch on the great oak. it fluttered carelessly towards the ground, your eyes absentmindedly trailing its path; due to this, a figure in an oversized red hoodie tucked neatly underneath another oak tree caught your attention.

a boy. though you could not make out the details of his face, the absolute absorption he had in the book his palms grasped tightly was almost amusing; dark eyebrows knit tightly, the pink flesh of his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth.

the rest of his uniform looked snug underneath the sweater he adorned, and he ran a slender hand through dark locks with a practiced ease.

he flipped a page in his book, and you swallowed, peeling your vision from his frame which bent comfortably against the stump of the tree. your stare bore into the side of his head-- and by pure coincidence-- his vision jumped from his book to your classroom window.

so gotham lied, like always. but today you hadn't minded, because the lie was oddly sweet.

✰

sometimes it tasted like cherries; bing, lambert, or even sweetheart-- tough skin protecting a gooey and tart core.

jason sat, not stiffly, per say, but not comfortably either-- in the small desk parallel to yours. barely six and a half minutes had passed since your english teacher had instructed you and your peers to exchange notes; "what are some literary elements you noticed were utilized within our novel study?"

his silence was not to account for his lack of knowledge, you thought, eyes scanning carefully over his comprehensive study of-- what the hell was an allegory? you thought, eyes squinting at his diligent note-taking.

big words with even larger ideas painted his page like it just came naturally to him; like noting how: 'the author employs literary techniques, such as euphemisms, to describe...' was a normal thing to do for an almost fourteen year old boy.

when would even need to write like this? you thought lazily.

the blue of jason's irises worked deftly, going line by line along your page. heat rose to your cheeks, and suddenly, it felt like he was picking apart and judging you. for every mischaracterization, irrelevant usage of an obvious metaphor, or straight-up incorrect statement, jason was one inch closer to turning his nose up at you in disgust.

to your utmost surprise, however-- the corners of the boy's mouth tilted upwards ever so slightly as he motioned for you to grab your paper from his hands.

your fingertips brushed. goosebumps swarmed at the back of your neck.

jason cleared his throat-- again, carding a hand through his hair. "i really like it," the earnestness in his voice was almost enough to make you weak. "you and i said a lot of the same things."

maybe he was just trying to be nice-- because you were certain you had no clue what an anaphora was-- but something in the way his freckled cheeks dusted with a soft pink whispered otherwise. you didn't let yourself see it.

"yeah, thank you," you murmured airily.

"'course," he spoke easily, glancing downwards at the sheet of paper in his hands. his mouth opened once, and then twice, before closing again-- like he was deciding if he should say something more. "i also like your handwriting. s'pretty,"

( 'like you.' he wants to add. wants to scream from every rooftop, shout from every mountain. it's pathetic, he thinks briefly (he's known you for a month!), before looking towards your face again. you look bashful; head tilted, hand hiding that perfect smile of yours and-- god.

jason just thinks you are so beautiful. )

you laughed it off, mumbling a thank you in between giggles-- like you wouldn't stay up at night staring at your ceiling and wishing jason would say other parts of you were pretty too.

✰

other times, it tasted like brownie batter; sweet, uncooked, and certain in its assurance to emit the strongest of warmths from your ribs, even in the coldest of times or at the risk of sickness.

gotham's skies were clouded over angrily-- an intimidating shade of grey enveloping the sky wholly. water danced its way from above, coming down onto the concrete below vehemently.

rain seeped into the fabric of your uniform uncomfortably; your skin dampened at a concerning rate, and you could not hide the shiver your body elicited at a desperate attempt for heat. you hadn't thought to check the weather that morning-- barely glancing through your bedroom window to be met with blue skies. you should have known better though, because gotham was a liar.

now you stood in front of your school's transit stop; waiting for a loud, mechanical vehicle to be your save and grace from the rain. there was no cover for you to hide from the weather-- and so you took, silently, all of what nature bestowed upon you. your hair was soaked, papers within your backpack certain to be ruined, and--

the rain had stopped.

not really; it still poured downwards with a passion around you-- but the sky's cool teardrops ceased their assault onto your frame as a familiar cologne wafted into your nose.

"i think it's raining," jason's voice was teasing, but his arm (covered by a spare coat he kept in his locker) shielded you from the onslaught of liquid falling from the sky.

you glanced at him, teeth chattering ever so slightly. "i hadn't noticed."

jason laughed-- simple, intimate-- at the impassive tone in your voice. your stomach flipped.

"why haven't you gone home yet?" you questioned. jason was always in and out of school; little did he feel the need to socialize (unless it was you-- not that you had known that), and even less did he want to. school itself was taxing enough, and as kind as he was, jason was still an introvert at heart.

"my driver was late," he offered easily. absentmindedly he brought a wrist up to glance at his watch. you caught the time it displayed.

an eyebrow of yours cocked upwards-- had school really ended twenty-five minutes ago? damn gotham city transit.

jason continued. "but he's here now." a lanky index finger of his pointed towards a sleek looking mercedes.

that same hand grasped the edge of your now sopping uniform sweater. "c'mon."

"c'mon?" you echoed. "jay, m'waiting for the bus,"

"correction: you were waiting for the bus; now you're not."

"i can't--"

his eyebrows furrowed, though his grip on your sweater didn't let up. the way he sighed your name made your pulse quicken. "are you really going to refuse a ride from me when i made my driver go all the way to new gotham to get us both hot chocolate?"

you were silent, a million and one thoughts racing through your head. although-- the longer you stood outside, despite the warmth jason's body radiated, the sharper the cold of gotham's rain became.

"no," you mumbled softly, letting up. jason's face unfurrowed-- freckles somehow radiant underneath the dark of gotham's clouded sky.

"good." he said firmly, before walking briskly to his car. you followed closely behind. you could feel the smile in his tone.

"...new gotham? we're in the heights, jason! that's like... twenty minutes away from here," you thought out loud. standing behind him now as he opened the back door to his car, you watched the tips of his ears burn a pleasant shade of pink.

"..uh-huh." was all he offered, motioning for you to crawl into the back of the car first. as you did so, more cogs turned in your mind.

"school ended like, half an hour ago," your voice was low; the heat of the car felt magnificent against your damp skin. "...jason."

the space between both of your seats seemed insurmountable; jason hummed in response, though he had this guilty look to his face. his cheeks tinted the same shade of his ears. sitting neatly in a cardboard tray were two coffee cups-- steam rising and curling from the small mouth-holes.

almost mockingly, it seemed-- judging by jason's face, the logo beaming at the both of you loudly. it was your favorite place for hot chocolate.

your eyes met jason's, and you watched his adam's apple bob softly as he swallowed. "what?" he asked, gnawing at his bottom lip. "you.. might've mentioned liking that place once or twice."

"doesn't explain why it's here in the first place," you grinned, quirking an eyebrow upwards again. your chin jut forward softly, motioning to the hot chocolate.

you watched jason fumbled, embarrassment crawling up the sides of his neck. "i knew it was gonna rain-- some of us actually check the weather."

your eyes rolled and clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth. "the bus?"

"it's late every tuesday; you complain about it to me every wednesday... i jus' figured you'd want a ride home."

...

there were so many things you could say.

but staring at the boy now, who looked-- to put it simply-- embarrassed (it was love-struck. jason looked love-struck), you decided to not press any further.

you hummed, a syrupy noise from the back of your throat, reaching forward for both cups. handing one to him, your fingers brushed again.

there were so many things you could say. so you chose not to say anything at all.

✰

your most beloved though, was when it tasted like apple-pie.

"this is only one of 'em," jason nodded, hand splayed against the heavy oak of the library door, holding it open for you.

"one of?" you gaped, vision sporadically travelling along the walls-- at least thirty feet high-- covered from floor to ceiling in books. "jay, this is in your house!"

your exasperation was only to jason's amusement, the boy grinning widely. "i know--" the reverence in his voice bounced off of the bookshelves, dancing along every spine, every page, every word within the room, "i spend most of my time in here."

without second thought, jason grasped your palm in his. his hold was sturdy, like he'd rather die than let go, as he led you towards a small nook; it was home to a sizeable bean-bag chair, along with a few unhoused books splayed messily at its feet.

jane austen, edgar allen poe, h.p lovecraft...

jason plopped down in the bean-bag with a huff. "c'mere," he pat what little space remained beside him.

"i'm not gonna fit with your fat-ass taking up the whole chair," you spat easily, crossing your arms over your chest. jason rolled his (gorgeous, mesmerizing-- haunting) blue eyes, giving you a half-assed shrug.

"so jus' throw your legs over mine. s'fine." he said, patting his thigh.

informality was something both you and jason had found to be devastatingly effortless. uncomplicated touches, knowing looks, personal smiles reserved only for the other-- there was something that jason todd had to him that bound you to him in every possible way. when he caught your eyes, he held them; like it would be a punishment worse than death to lose sight of you. when he spoke, it was so gentle, so full, so intimate, you couldn't think (you couldn't bare to imagine him speaking to another the same way). your entire soul had been absorbed by jason, and there was little doubt in your mind that he hadn't been irrevocably devoted to you as well.

even in something as casual, as light, as mellow as this-- it was clear that you and jason were soulmates; even if you hadn't realized it yet.

you scoffed playfully, though sat down sideways-- legs splayed over top of his own, leaning back onto the plush of the bean-bag. despite the support the chair offered, however, your head rest easily on his shoulder.

just so i can read along, you convinced yourself, crown of your head slotting smoothly against jason's jaw. not so i can breathe him in.

"what did you wanna read this month?" he asked, voice hardly above a whisper. your proximity allowed for the words to barely fall from his lips-- yet they landed loudly in your ribs.

"wuthering heights, i think," you replied. it had been your turn to pick a book of the month-- so you chose a classic; one you were sure jason wouldn't refute.

jason hummed in approval, and you smiled softly to yourself; proud that you knew him.

you watched him twist around the bean bag, using his foot to probe and toss a few of the novels around-- until his fidgeting revealed the book you were looking for.

he flipped through the first opening pages steadily, until he reached chapter one; jason's voice was impossibly low. "y'wanna read?"

"sure," your answer rolled off your tongue easily, eyes narrowing down on the first few lines. jason angled the book towards you, and you softly cleared your throat. "i have just returned from a visit to my landlord-- the solitary neighbor i shall be troubled with."

as the lines blurred into paragraphs, which blurred into pages, jason got lost within the sound of your language. every breath, every intonation-- jason honed in on and snatched tightly-- unwilling to let go of what drew him into you. the way you spoke, words curving around each syllable lovingly; the way your lashes fluttered and almost seemed to rest on the swell of your cheek as your eyes squinted in concentration at the page; the way your thumbs caressed circles onto the paper, a habit he had noticed you performed absentmindedly when you felt at ease.

he noticed the way your breath hitched every time one of his palms found the small of your back; he noticed when you were tired, eyelids drooping with exhaustion (jason always offered a shoulder for you to sleep on); he noticed when you did something different with your hair, or your make-up, or your clothes.

jason todd noticed you. saw right through you like you were made of glass; he treated you as such, too, with a tenderness so raw it made you physically burn for him.

what he hadn't noticed, was that your voice had caught in the middle of a sentence, eyes glancing upwards to meet his face. your sentence died in your throat-- irises focusing on every minute detail jason's face housed, wuthering heights long forgotten as it slid from your palms to your lap.

a scar on his chin from when he was four, and teaching himself to ride a bike.

a mole tucked right between the crease of his eyelids; you had only spotted it once, when he had fallen asleep against your frame one day waiting for his driver to fetch him from school.

his freckles. constellations scattered across the expanse of his entire body; you wanted to count them, fingertips itching to press themselves gently against every single one. you wanted to start now, lose count, and restart again- just as an excuse to keep jason close to you for just a little while longer.

your eyes met his, finally; silence, save for the soft hum of the manor's heater, washed over the library in waves. it was the type of silence that was loud. charged. expectant.

distantly, you thought back to the sociology class you had been in two years prior-- the same day you had met jason; "what would gotham lay her hands out and present to the so-called winners?"

staring deeply into jason's eyes, you thought you had an idea as to what gotham gifted her most precious of citizens.

"jason?" you asked, breaking the soundless trance that had enveloped the library.

"mhm?" his eyes darted to your lips-- as they had been the entire time you were reading.

(much to jason's surprise, you noticed him too.)

"you can kiss me if you want to."

his eyes widened softly, before his cheeks barely dimpled; your name fell from his lips like a prayer-- breathelessly and devoted.

jason's lips slotted against yours, your noses bumping clumsily in a rush of infatuation. it seeped into your kiss, bleeding out from the both of you like an unchecked wound-- intensely, stubbornly, and with no end in sight.

your hand connected itself to jason's cheek-- thumb swiping at his chin and jawline quietly; soothingly.

that night, you kissed jason like you had had all the time in the world. kissed him like he would always be there, kissed him like there was nothing else in the universe that mattered more than jason peter todd and you.

you kissed him like he wouldn't be dead in less than a year; oblivious, naive, and in love.

PLUVOiA '25 ® - masterlist

loren's thots: ive been listening to dont dream its over by crowded house all day and so now it seems like their song and ugh. my heart. also read this and then go back and read part 1. el em aye oh. like u guuys were so cute what happened!! ... the joker happened, thats what. sorry this series is taking a bit longer to churn out, since im invested i keep writing shit and then deleting it cs i dont think its good enough so....yea. part 2 will come eventually tho....maybe in like 87 years.....

(reqs are open! - feel free to chit-chat w me / share ur thoughts on this series too!!! i wanna hear what the ppl think)

you'd known him for three years, watching him curiously until a familiar nervousness coiled in your stomach around him, your cheeks flushed when he smiled timidly at you, and you giggled innocently when he recommended literature for you and him to read together.

( "personally, i like margaret atwood," he had nodded, scratching shyly at his neck. "and while the handmaid's tale is good-- i'd tell you to read alias grace first. it's a whole experience... you'd enjoy it." jason had been so beyond his years-- interested in classic novels and literature like it was his oxygen. he was a nerd, by all traditional standards. and it had you infatuated. )

minutes blurred into hours with jason, and when his father had caught you both kissing for the first time in his sizeable library, he hadn't been surprised.

( "mr. wayne, i'm so--" you had started, feeling your face heat up at an impeccable speed. jason sat beside you, grinning like he had won the lottery; speechless and ecstatic. bruce had glanced between the two of you, his face blank, before slowly backing away and closing the library door behind him. jason's freckled cheeks tinted a deeper pink, his hand coming up to cup your jaw;

"see? old man didn't say anything-- it means he likes you."

oh how happy you had been. jason's father liked you! )

nobody had been surprised when you became a regular at the wayne mansion; often times, being greeted by his sibling like you were apart of the family. there had been no question about your future with the youngest master in the mansion; your days ahead as a wayne looking bright.

( "jaybird told me he's gonna marry you," his older brother had told you one night-- jason had gone to the bathroom, leaving you and dick alone in the living room together, movie on the large television paused. "obviously not now, but soon." dick had tossed kernels of popcorn into his mouth with a practiced ease. you flushed, stomach swirling wildly at the thought of getting married to jason. "i told him i'd sucker punch him if he didn't." )

the night you learned jason had died replays over and over and over again in your mind, like some sick film stuck on repeat. every time you're left in silence, you hear the scream you had let out-- throat left fatally raw. every time you dream, you see his casket being lowered into the ground. every time you stare at your reflection in the mirror, the same words flash in front of your face:

jason peter todd. forever sixteen.

grief had been a terrible thing-- swallowing your life up whole, consuming every fibre of your being, and resting heavily on your shoulders like a suffocating fog infecting your lungs and making it impossible to breathe.

the last you had heard from the waynes had been a package in the mail; arriving to your parent's front doorstep, exactly two months after jason's funeral. neatly wrapped, your name written delicately on a gift tag attached to a red ribbon that encased the entire package.

your hands were shaking when you had opened it; like somehow, you knew this was their version of closure-- this was them saying good-bye.

there was a small note resting on the gift itself, addressing you:

this was in jason's school bag; its annotated, cover to cover. we all figured you'd enjoy getting to pick at his brain one last time. you're a sweet girl, and jason would never let us forget it. happy seventeenth birthday.

all the best,

the waynes.

below the note was jason's copy of alias grace.

four and a half years years later, it still remains unopened; like jason's ghost would appear should you even dare to flick through the pages.

so your apartment is cold; not just cold, freezing. because moving on, getting over it, and growing up was hard. especially knowing jason would never get the chance, forever trapped in a mindless pit of death and grief and being forever sixteen.

✰

you cannot believe your eyes. surely, this had to be some horrid joke someone was playing on you-- maybe you had even been unknowingly exposed to fear toxin; you cursed mentally, because shit. you can't remember the last time you checked the news.

jason's voice is a shock to your system, your name leaving his mouth sounding like a foreign language. jason's entire being is a shock to your system-- standing in your doorway, holding a large bouquet of your favorite flowers, looking simply bashful.

"uh," he starts, scratching at his jaw. the sound of his fingers connecting to slight stubble echoes within your apartment's corridor. "hello."

...

"what the fuck."

you don't mean to be so crude, but... what the fuck! your dead boyfriend is standing right in front of you, very much alive. instead, he's grown-- wiser, older, bigger. his chest and shoulders are broad, barely contained by the sweatshirt he's adorning; his cheeks are still freckled to the moon and back, but mean looking scars litter his face; the most noticeable one being a 'J' along his left cheek.

you remember his eyes being blue-- a soft, loving, knowing blue. like the ocean, or maybe even the sky on the sunniest of spring days. they blink back at you now almost an un-natural shade of green, and you swear they're flickering.

jason swallows, nodding his head slowly. he extends two arms gently, as if to soothe you like you're some sort of wild animal. which, in his defense, is what you feel like; probably what you look like too, considering your hair is mussed from sleep and you've dragged your hands down your face a solid thirty-six times since you've opened the door. "it's okay, i- i know you're probably really confused,"

"confused?" you exasperate, eyes widening maddeningly. "i'm--"

scared. insane. hurt. sick. grieving.

you shake your head, unbelieving of the sight in front of you. "you're supposed to be dead."

jason's shoulders fall ever so slightly. "well. i was, and now i'm not." he offers slowly. it comes out harsher than he intended, and he cringes inwardly at his tone.

"you're supposed to be dead." you repeat. your chest, you think, has not felt this tight since you were told jason had died. your mouth is parted, air beginning to enter and exit you at a quickeningly alarming rate. your throat is so tight-- you cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot see-- all you feel is your chest heaving, throat closing, and hands trembling. your eyes are watering too; you can feel them begin to shed salty tears, fat droplets rolling down your cheeks.

is this what shock is like? i think i'm going into shock, you think vaguely, hand bracing the frame of your apartment's front door. it's too hot, is another thing that floats into the edges of your mind; which is ironic, given the thermostat in your apartment's entryway reads nineteen point five degrees celcius. "fuck." you manage to mutter, still hyperventilating.

jason moves. like its habit, like its practiced, like its muscle memory-- he moves. swiping you up into his arms from underneath your knees, he cradles you to his chest. his grip on the flowers tighten, as well as your body, as he manages to shut your apartment's door behind him. his eyes scan the floor-- quickly, he places you down on one of your couches, kneeling in front of you.

"hey," he starts softly, and the way he says your name is so tender, you think if you hadn't already been crying, that would have sent you over the edge. "it's just me. which, okay, i know is a lot for you to take in-- but it's just me, jason. your jason." his hands find yours, and his thumbs begin to stroke the back of your palm comfortingly. "you don't need to be upset, baby," the petname falls from his lips like muscle memory, and his heart clenches. "i'm sorry i left you for so long; i promise i won't do it again, my poor girl," he whispers, squeezing your hands tightly. "but i'm back now, and everything s'gonna be alright, okay?"

you nod, unable to form any coherent words. tears continue to fall from your eyes, dampening your face further-- it isn't shock, though, that drives your emotions high anymore. through your upset, your palms find his cheeks, grasping gently onto this boy who you truly believed you would never see again.

it is relief.

✰

if you didn't believe jason could rip your heart to shreds any further, you would be a sorely mistaken woman.

he explains, about half an hour later, everything. his mother, the joker, the explosion, dying, being resurrected, the pit, the league. all of it.

it wrenches something deep within your gut, and you truly cannot fathom how he's just talking about all of this while cutting the stems of your flowers and gently placing them in a vase.

"so," he sighs, snipping a stalk, watching the end fall carelessly into the trash bin beneath him, "then i moved back in with bruce. which, i didn't want to at the time, but i think it's been good for my whole..."

"coming back to life thing?" you offer.

"yeah," he replies, the corner of his mouth snaking upwards the smallest bit. "that."

there's a silence that envelops your apartment afterwards. jason keeps moving methodically, apparently quite captivated in the act of prepping flowers for your kitchen table.

"why did you come back?" you ask suddenly. so suddenly, it even catches yourself off guard-- like it had been an intrusive thought that was more of an intrusive comment. "back to me." you clarify.

jason stills. "because," he says after a few moments, "don't you want to see me?"

"i do," you answer easily, ignoring how selfish the question inherently is in nature. "but if you're just here to--" you gesture vaguely to the plants within his hands. "do that, then maybe..."

you shouldn't have come.

you don't say it, your voice trailing off-- but its clear the implication hangs in the air like dead weight.

jason sets both a flower and the plant cutter down, bracing both of his arms onto the edge of your counter. "are you seeing someone?" he asks abruptly. his face has hardened, going colder. again-- you swear his eyes are flickering.

"what?" you question, face contorting into confusion. "no-- i-- shit," you swallow, chuckling quietly. you're laughing because even the thought of a date with someone else makes you nauseous. "i haven't even been out once like that since... well, you." the confession makes your cheeks burn, and you feel some form of embarrassment wash over you like cold water.

jason's face softens, and he glances downwards towards his feet. "oh." he says quietly.

"yeah." your fingers drum anxiously against the fabric of your couch.

silence overtakes your apartment again; though its charged this time, with something else-- something you haven't felt in a long time.

it takes jason only a few steps to cross your entire apartment, before he's sat beside you on the couch. there's barely an inch of space between both of you, and you can feel the heat radiating from his body; it calls to you, and your fingers twitch.

"i came back to see you because i'm in love with you." he says carefully.

if you didn't know jason todd, you'd assume he said it in a detached sort of way-- but you do know jason todd (or at least once you had known jason todd) so you read him easily; he's nervous.

"seeing all of my shit from... before, in my old room, it just..." he pauses. "there was a lot of stuff i had that was for you."

his admission makes your throat tight again.

"pictures of you, poems from you, some of your books--" the tips of his ears go a romantic shade of pink, "i even found a bottle of your old perfume that i used to spray on my pillow."

"oh, jay," you taunt, (as if things are normal, as if he wasn't dead, as if he's never been gone), bringing a hand up to your mouth to conceal your giggle.

jason turns to face you, as if he's trying to figure something out; trying to decipher something in your chuckle. his solemn expression immediately quiets your laughter, and you whisper: "oh, shit, m'sorry-- i shouldn't have laughed--"

"can i kiss you?" he cuts you off. his eyes flicker from your own to your lips, and your tongue darts out subconsciously to wet them. he mirrors you.

there is something within you that twists, so deeply, so fully, it almost makes you topple over. as you're staring at jason, the question lingering in the air, suddenly-- he doesn't look so different than from before. he looks shy, he looks timid, he looks youthful; his hair resembles the way it did, all those years ago in the back of bruce's library. his eyes-- despite the colour difference-- are soft, warm, familiar. the longer you stare, the less you see the scars that paint his cheeks, and the more you see the same freckles you used to count naively, knowing there would be no end.

all those years ago, you believed there would have been no end. you and jason would be as permanent as the stars in the sky, bound to each other in every life time and every universe.

and then there had been an end. and you had never been so lost before.

now, there's a beginning. so you tell jason:

"yes," it's breathless, and whispered so quietly, he has to lean forward to hear you like you're telling him a secret. "please kiss me."

your lips meet almost apprehensively, slotting against one another like puzzle pieces. it's sweet and its slow, your hand inching its way towards jason's thigh-- as if he'll shatter should you touch him. it's him who pulls away first, his eyes half-closed as he glances down at your now saliva-soaked lips, before they flit upwards to meet yours.

jason smiles, corners of his eyes crinkling gently.

your eyes water, and you see him falter. before he can speak-- you beat him to it, shaking both your head and hands. "m'okay," you say, though its not very convincing.

jason whispers your name skeptically, raising one of his eyebrows.

"sorry, i just--" you sniffle. "i just can't believe you're here. you're back. and sitting in front of me, with your heart beating and your lungs working and--" you need to cut yourself off, so you inhale.

"let me kiss you again," jason says, reaching a hand out to cup your jaw. his thumb swipes against your cheek, catching a stray tear. "please."

so you do. its far less timid this time, like everything is coming back to the both of you. jason's second hand reaches to gently grab the nape of your neck, pushing your face into his, deepening the kiss.

you're no less enthusiastic-- arms immediately going to rest around his own neck, your head tilting to the side, craving him deeper. all at once, it feels like you have to make up for lost time.

every minute your hands could've been intertwined with his, you laid grieving, so many people having stolen that reality from the both of you. your tongue darts out, swiping against jason's bottom lip, and you feel his movements stutter before he opens his mouth wider. every night you could have been enraptured within jason; he was out there-- cold, afraid, and alone.

you're fumbling clumsily to get into jason's lap, pressing your hands to his chest-- forcing him to lay back in the couch-- while you both still remain connected at the mouths. he obeys easily, and you swear you hear him whine when you begin to suck on his tongue.

"jay," you sigh softly, breaking the kiss; a string of spit keeps you both linked.

jason keeps his palms glued to your jaw like you're his life-line; dipping his head low, he begins to press chaste kisses to your neck. he breathes your name out-- like its serious, heavy, means something to him-- and his voice cause your skin to prickle against the vibrations.

"i don't think you understand," a kiss lands beneath your ear. "how much i've missed you." another kiss to your cheek. "every day, every night-- didn't matter where i was; i thought of you," he guides your head to turn, giving him access to the other side of your throat. "i don't remember much from the night i died," he confesses, lips cemented to your skin. "but i remember-- your face, it had been one of the last things i thought of."

jason peels himself from your body like it physically pains him, and when you look-- really look-- at him, you see his eyes are foggy. "and you're the first thing i thought of when i came back too."

you're silent. for what seems to be ages, you cannot find the words to articulate how you're feeling. your brain wracks for the right things to say, the right thing to do with your hands, or maybe even the right thing to do with your lips.

"jason." your mouth trembles, and god, you are so sick of crying tonight.

but you can't stop it; can't stop how deeply you feel for him, can't stop how badly you've needed him since he's been gone, and you can't help how much you wish he hadn't left-- no, been taken from you-- in the first place.

"i know i'm selfish." jason speaks, running a hand through his dark hair. "for coming here, ambushing you-- and expecting you to take me back like nothing's wrong," he really can't keep his hands still, can he? "but i was so sick of being apart from you, i couldn't-- fuck, i couldn't bare to not see your face, not hear your voice, not be with you for any longer."

jason doesn't know where all these words are coming from; they're flying out from his mouth unfiltered and raw, and he thinks hazily that they're cutting and jabbing and hurting you-- just like he's hurt everyone else.

but he's not hurting you-- jason peter todd is the last man on earth who could hurt you. through your tears, you take hold of his hands, finally giving them something to be still within.

"we should stop," you say, looking intensely into his beautiful green eyes. "not because i want to-- but because i think,"

you swallow. what do you think?

you think that you're overwhelmed, in shock, perhaps even hallucinating-- but mostly that you're in love.

you think that your soulmate has come back from the dead and fuck, not everyone gets the chance to start over-- so you want to do it right. when you're not overwhelmed, in shock, and certain you're not hallucinating.

you think you want to tell jason that you're in love with him too; but that truth is scary when love is a permanent thing meant for very temporary people.

"i think we should go out."

"on... a date?" jason questions, as if there was any other way you meant it. as if he cannot believe you're proposing such a thing.

"no. to the moon." you roll your eyes, swiping at them with the heels of your palms. "yes, on a date."

jason's quiet for a few moments, and you can practically see the cogs turning within his head. then he smiles-- a gentle, kind, bashful smile-- and whispers: "alright."

he can barely hesitate, reverence so clear in his voice it almost makes you sick, before adding on: "and if you wanted to go to the moon, i'd figure out how to get you there."

your face crumples, and you reach a hand out to smack jason's arm. "that's really fuckin' cheesy,"

jason shrugs-- not bothering to pretend like your jab had any effect on him. "s'true."

the air conditioner turns on-- the noisy rumble from deep inside your apartment walls whirling to life. the routine of it doesn't shock you; you've become far too accustomed to the deep ache of needing to feel something, resorting to a cold that'll seep into your bones and take ages to defrost.

goosebumps raise along your arms. for the first time in four and a half years, you finally feel cold.

PLUVOiA '25 ® - masterlist

loren's thots: i am in love w this req. in love. except im at the point where if i stare at this post for any longer, ill delete it all lmfao... also jason todd reading alias grace is so important to me bc A. its fantastic i liked it way more than the handmaids tale go read it if u have time and B. its got central themes of the mistreatment women have faced over time and how overlooked we've always been in terms of the justice system, our health, and within relationships w/ all types of diff men. and ofc!! our little feminist jason todd would be reading that!!!! like hello!! and im not even js saying that theres like,,, vids abt jason's character and how he was made to be more 'feminine' so the target audience [men] of dc would grow to dislike him. sigh hes so important to me. oh also i was totally picturing jason from ak when writing this hes so. yum. (reqs are open!!)

“The mayor of Gotham has released a statement encouraging residents to remain indoors and avoid unnecessary travel-“ the news anchor droned on about the blizzard that was on its way. You had seen harsh winters before, but never like the one they were calling for tonight: 2-3 inches of snow every hour for the next 14 hours. Originally, you were grateful to finally have a weekend off, but with the storm coming, you’d most likely be asked to come in unless some type of divine intervention happened. Not that you didn’t love being an ER nurse, but after so many extra weekend shifts for double pay… 

Out of the living room windows, snow had started falling on your third-floor fire escape. Big fluffy flakes landed on the frozen metal as if someone had glued cotton balls to the railing. From where you sat bundled up on the couch, the TV became background noise. With an exasperated sigh, you forced yourself up and into the kitchen. Your cat, Shrimp, complained loudly about the interruption you caused during his nap. 

Time dragged on as you preemptively meal prepped for the inevitable help texts. Before you knew it, it was 9:45 pm as you sealed the final container. Shrimp had wandered off somewhere else in the apartment. The fire escape was blanketed in at least ten inches of snow. Your phone vibrated, and the screen lit up with your charge nurse's name. The sight nearly brought you to tears. 

“Hello,” you answered automatically, the word like sand on your tongue. Both of you knew what she was planning to ask. 

“Hey! Do you wan-“ a sharp crash came from your fire escape. Curses and a loud hiss as if someone had broken an elbow. 

“Hold up, let me call you back. I think someone just tripped down the fire escape.” Ending the call before she could protest, you placed it on the counter and made your way to the living room. Dark movement flashed by the window, only to slip as you came near. 

Whoever it was was certainly not an adult—or not a very big one at least. Clicking the locks up, the window slid open smoothly. There, holding his right leg to his chest was none other than Robin. You’d caught glimpses of him and other vigilantes in the city at night, but never encountered one face to face. 

“Hey, birdie, you okay?” An eyebrow quirked as you visually examined his potential injuries. 

“I am fine!” He hissed back through gritted teeth. A long gash going up his right leg was left exposed to the elements through a tear in his suit. He seemed so young to be doing this type of work. “Do not call me that. I am not a pet.”

“You sure? Cause it looks like you need antiseptic and stitches from where I’m standing.” 

“I am fine! I do not require assistance!” His face twisted in pain as he pulled his leg closer. 

“I’m an ER nurse, promise I’m pretty good at stitching people up.” Your cat hopped up on the windowsill to peer out at the scene. You nearly made a joke about him finding a bird. “Look at you all nosy and shit.” Shooing him away from the open window only piqued the Robin’s interest. “Do you like cats?” 

“Yes.” Blunt and straight to the point. An idea popped into your head after seeing his interest in your cat. 

“I’ll make you a deal: you sit at the kitchen table and let me stitch your leg, and you get to spend the entire time attempting to keep his attention.” Frowning as if weighing his options carefully, he accepted the deal. Not without airing his grievances, of course. “Here.” Offering him a hand through the window only to receive a dirty look back.

“Alright, damn, little man.” You muttered as he hobbled to the kitchen table. In the apartment light, the full injury became clearer. Blood dripped with each limp across the living room carpet. What you thought had been just a long cut up his leg was much deeper, heading up to his thigh just above his knee. Nursing mode took over as you walked ahead of him to clear off the table. The pain he tried to hide escaped in small grunts as he moved. “I need you to sit here for a moment, okay? Keep your leg like this.” 

You guided him to a chair and gently propped his leg up. You left for a brief moment to grab two pillows and several clean towels. From the other room, his grumbles were just barely audible. The last items you grabbed were your first aid kit from your nursing bag, a change of clothes, and a very round Red Hood plushie your younger brother had left when he visited you earlier that week. 

“Okay, I am not going to ask you for any personal information. Do you understand?” He nodded, glaring at you as you laid out the towels on top of the table. “All I need to know is how you received your injury and if you are injured anywhere else.” Placing a pillow on each end of the table, you move to crouch by him. “I’m going to help you up, okay? When you get on the table, I need you to lie flat on your back while I adjust your leg to where I need it to work.” 

“Fine, and then do not touch me.” He grumbled, you held in a laugh at the situation cause honestly, you understood. Even you hated admitting you needed help. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Lifting him as comfortably as you could, he eased onto the table without further injury. Once his head was on the pillow, you positioned his leg on the other one. You shared your name and the hospital you worked at with him in an attempt to make him less on edge. A perplexed look crossed his face as you handed him the plushie. With a small pair of scissors, you cut away at the suit's fabric right above the wound. “I need to cut the rest of this part of your suit so I can work, okay? Can you tell me how you got injured?” 

Gloved hands slid surgical paper under his propped leg. He examined the plushie as he spoke. “I fell. A piece of broken railing caught my leg around the fifth floor until I managed to swing myself outside your window.” His face contorted as I tried carefully to adjust his leg to face the kitchen light. 

Steady bleeding but not spurting everywhere. Bottom lip in his teeth as he held in the pain from where you pressed around the wound, checking for arterial involvement. You were checking his capillary refill when his voice interrupted. 

“Your taste in toys is abysmal. I assumed you were too old for them.” 

A low chuckle breached your lips at his comment, and you gave in to distracting him. “It’s my brother’s, you look about the same age as him. He’s a big Red Hood fan. Thought you might like having something to hold while I clean you up.” You spoke casually to him, though out of the corner of your eye, you could see him biting his lip as you rinsed the long gash with distilled water. “Also, if you are around my brother’s age, I’m not too much older than you. I’m only in my twenties. I can assure you I won’t be placed in a museum yet. I’m going to dry you off and then apply an antiseptic. I need to make sure there’s no debris left in the wound.” 

Explaining every step became second nature. You found working with kids was far easier than most adult patients. Then again, most children were accompanied by their parents and didn’t need to be held in nine-point restraints. 

“I do not need you to explain everything. I am not a child.” He argued, yet seeing him hold the stuffed toy to his chest said otherwise. In that moment, this stranger, who couldn’t have been older than twelve, reminded you so much of your brother. You almost forgot he was Batman’s sidekick, Robin. 

“We might not be in a hospital, but you are still my patient, and so I will treat you with the same safety and HIPAA protocols I would there.” As if on cue, your phone started to vibrate. The caller ID showed that the hospital staffing coordinator's office was calling. Your eyes rolled as you finished spreading the antiseptic around his wound. Pulling off your gloves, you answered the call on speaker, signaling the boy to stay quiet. “Hello.” 

“Hey, it’s Ana in the staffing coordinator's office. Sarah’s in charge and wanted me to give you a call and see if you’d be able to come in for double pay tonight?” Ana was far too perky for 10:15 at night. 

“I can’t tonight, I’m really sorry. I have my little brother for the night since my mom got called into work across town.” Lie after lie, but it’s not as though you could up and leave Robin on his own. Your responses to each question she asked were well handled until she finally hung up.

“I am not your brother.” He said, glaring at you. Skepticism was written all over his face. The way he spoke made you think that he was trying more to convince himself than you. “How shameful of you to turn down work.” 

“Such a shame, but it’s my first weekend off in two months, sooo,” you paused just as the first stitch was placed. “I’m perfectly fine not going in. Besides, there’s a robin in need of some assistance.” 

“I am not an injured zoo animal.” His leg tensed under your hands as each suture pulled tight. You had started at the deepest part above his knee, wanting to close it up before anything else. The fear of sepsis or something else that might go deep enough to nick the artery was overwhelming. You’d never be able to look your little brother in the eye again if Robin bled out on your fire escape or in your kitchen. Though the laceration wasn’t deep enough to be life-threatening, an infection would change that. It had missed the femoral artery by nothing more than luck and divine intervention. When he bit down, another ache and pain; you had to apologize for not having pain medication to give him. 

Mumbles that sounded a lot like “that fucking hurt” reached your ears. You tried not to smile at his irritation, but seeing him hold onto the Red Hood plushie for dear life was adorable. 

“Did you hit or get injuries anywhere else? No broken toes, fingers?” You question without looking to him, stopping the sutures to clean up more blood. 

“No. Nor do I need—that hurt!” His voice shot up an octave as you resumed the stitches below his knee. His tawny flesh mangled where the metal sliced. The way he cried out made you flinch; it broke your heart that he was in pain, and there was nothing you could do but keep causing it. 

“I know, bug, it’s gonna hurt for a moment, and then it’s gonna be all better.” One of the older nurses always spoke to her patients that way. Hell, she’d even spoken to you that way. Pet names, you’d learn, do wonders to soothe patients. The same pet name you had called your brother when he needed comfort. “You’re doing so great for me, we’re almost done. I promise.” 

As if he’d perfectly timed it, Shrimp hopped into the chair Robin had previously sat in. His front paw was up by the boy's head in an attempt to figure out who he was. The boy froze, holding his hand out to the little gray creature. “His name’s Shrimp.” 

“Why?” He asked, his demeanor shifting completely. Softer as if worried he might scare the cat off.

“That’s what he looked like when I found him. A shrimp. An ugly, tiny shrimp. But now he’s a happy fat shrimp.” Your nonchalant attitude towards the cat caught him a bit off guard. 

“But he is gray, not orange.” The look he shot you telepathically asked if you were stupid.

“He was orange when I found him. Let’s see,” you spoke thoughtfully, thinking back to the day you brought that small, terrified cat home. You were halfway down the boy's calf, almost done. “Do you remember a year ago, when those people on 8th and 3rd street got busted for a dog-fighting ring? The one where they rescued twenty dogs, and the people were sentenced for ten years?” 

You didn’t have to look away to know he was nodding. Shrimp lovingly rubbed his head against the boy's hand, sneezing as he did so. “I found him in the alley where they had been using the cats and smaller dogs as bait. That’s why his eyes are missing.” 

He scoffed incredulously as if offended by the entire situation. “And you named him Shrimp? How tone deaf-“

“I had to find humor in the situation. When I took him to the vet, he had severe infections in his eye sockets, open wounds, and, without an owner, they were going to put him down. So I said his names Shrimp, I found him, I’ll pay for him, and I’m going to take him home after.”

There was a strange silence that followed. Shrimp’s purring filled the void of discomfort and mutual understanding. “You saved his life?” 

“Yes, everyone and everything deserves a chance, and it wasn’t his fault that happened to him.” He held the plushie closer to his chest as Shrimp continued to assault his hand with licks. “Try not to feel too bad for him. He’s still a little shit at the end of the day.” 

“You allow him to roam freely.” The boy paused as if debating what was appropriate to say next. “He appears well fed.”

The comment made you snort. Your attempt to focus on his wound was now perturbed by memories of Shrimp’s last vet visit. “Yeah, he’s a bit rotund.”

Silence filled the apartment once more. Ragged, steady breathing along with Shrimp’s purring and the occasional hiss from the boy—there were no further questions. As you neared his ankle with the final stitches, you braced yourself for him to kick you with his good leg. A situation you had found yourself in more times than you could count. Only the kick never came. Your gaze drifted over to him. One fist clenched at his side as the other strangled the red hood plushie. Shrimp kept licking at the tears sliding down his temple.

Giving the stitches another look over as you snipped and tied the last one above his ankle, you wiped up any remaining blood. Carefully, you applied antiseptic and gauze to the long wound before wrapping his leg completely. 

“Listen,” you spoke calmly as you did on the many occasions you tried not to parent your little brother. Cleaning and packing up the first aid kit and your nurse bag, you tossed your gloves in the trash. “This isn’t an overnight injury. You cannot leave here alone, you cannot go out fighting anyone. I’m not kicking you out, I just need to know someone knows you are safe.” Gesturing to the blizzard that’s packed on over a foot of snow. “I’m going to give you my phone, call someone, okay ?” 

Handing him your phone, you realized he’d now been in your apartment for two hours. He reluctantly accepted the device; maybe it was pride, perhaps shame for anyone to see him like this, but it broke your heart. “After you call, I have clothes for you to change into.” 

He nodded without retort, pushing the numbers on the dial pad until he held the phone against his ear. “Pennyworth?” Through the phone, you could hear “Master Damian, where are you?” As you gathered your brother’s sweatpants, t-shirt, and hoodie. Giving him a bit of privacy while on the phone, you placed the clothes in the bathroom before walking back out. 

His phone call had ended. Your phone was placed back on the table. “I’m going to help you get to the bathroom, okay? I will not be going in with you, but if you fall or slip and need help, let me know. I’ve put clothes on the counter for you.” You explained that you moved Shrimp from the area and wrapped one of the boy’s arms around your shoulder to help him up. “When you’re done, I’m gonna put you on the couch and hand you the remote. I’ll wrap up your suit for you.” 

You could see it. The way he wanted to argue and protest against your demands. Helping him move to the bathroom was a tedious, slow task with your only goal to ensure the stitches didn’t rip. Once to your destination, you flipped on the light and allowed him to steady himself using the door frame and countertop. You closed the door behind him before heading to the living room, where Shrimp had made his bed on the couch. 

“You really like having a new friend, huh?” You asked, looking at the chubby gray cat who flicked his tail at you. Quickly, you adjust the cushions and grab new pillows to help prop the boy’s leg up. Upon hearing the bathroom door open, you looked back to find him maskless and peeking out at you. “I’m coming.” 

You repeated the technique of letting him use you as a crutch. Helping him at a steady pace towards the couch. Once he was comfortable, head rested by Shrimp, you covered him in a blanket and gave him the remote. “I need to clean up the table, but call me if you need anything.” 

Back in the kitchen, you grabbed an unopened bottle of water and placed it in front of the boy. As if you were fully on shift, you grabbed his suit from the bathroom sink and wrapped it tight in a gallon ziplock bag. A trick one of the older nurses taught you. Placing the bag on the kitchen counter, you finally gathered up everything on the table. From the sound of it, you assumed that Shrimp had managed to crawl on top of Damian. 

“You are…far heavier than you appear.” Damian’s words drifted to the kitchen. His feigned annoyance gave way to something softer. “You would be far more effective if you possessed sight. Your survival instincts are questionable.” You nearly missed it with how quietly he spoke. “Tt. I suppose you are not terrible.”

Approximately four to five minutes later, there was a knock at your front door. The boy, Damian, as you’d heard over the phone, seemed unfazed by the sound, as if he was expecting it. Taking a deep breath, you moved to answer the knock. Subtle bickering could be heard from the other side as you opened the door. There, in the hall, were two men who, you guessed, were around your age. Both are tall with dark hair. One with blue eyes who gave you a charming smile. The taller one with green eyes who looked you up and down in a perplexed manner. You assumed it had to do with the blood on your clothes. 

“I’m assuming you’re here for the kid?” You asked, glancing over them, taking in their body language. 

“Yes,” they said unanimously. Stepping aside, you let them, carefully watching every move they made. It seemed they were still bickering through whispers with each other when they walked in. 

“He’s in the living room. Might wanna cut your shit, stress is the last thing he needs.” Closing the door behind them, you walked back into the kitchen. You grabbed the boy's suit, handing it back to him before returning to finish wiping down the table. 

As you did, the two men whispered loudly with the boy in your living room. Arguing over what to do with you and whether you could be trusted. With an exasperated sigh, you looked at the trio. 

“Hey.” Three heads turned to face you. “I performed a medical procedure tonight. That makes him my patient. And I’m not at liberty to discuss my patients.”

An awkward tension filled the apartment as the older men looked at you. You could see Damian trying not to laugh at the fact that you yelled at them. The blue-eyed man apologized awkwardly as something seemed to have caught the green-eyed one’s attention. 

“Is that me?” He looked at Damian while pointing at the plushie. 

“I am also deeply disturbed.” The boy said. Rolling your eyes with a chuckle, you carried the towels and pillows to your in-unit laundry room. It was really your only requirement when you moved out of your mom’s home. Back in the kitchen, you grabbed a pen and paper, calling to ask if the more responsible of the two would come over to you. 

“I’m writing down exactly what I did, what the injury is, and what needs to happen.” You said as if speaking to a parent about their child. “He’ll need crutches and to be seen by a primary care provider. He’ll also need rest, actual rest with his leg elevated and cleaned throughout the day. Do you understand?” Handing the blue-eyed man the paper as you asked. 

“Yes, and thank you.” He spoke kindly, but you could tell he wanted to leave as quickly as possible. “You’re not-“

“I do not care. It’s really not my business.” Of course, you knew who they were. Gotham tabloids made it impossible not to know Bruce Wayne’s sons. You felt that as long as you didn’t name it, then you wouldn’t have a follow-up appointment with Batman himself. “One last thing,” 

Standing, you moved hastily to a hall closet, pulling out one of your jackets and returning to the blue-eyed man. Shoving the jacket towards him as you spoke. “This is for him to take. I gave him a change of my brother’s clothes, but a hoodie won’t do much to keep him warm. I don’t need this back either.” 

Muttering came from your living room, something about the boy turning off his comms and not responding. The plushie was tucked against Damian’s ribs the entire time. The man in front of you took the jacket hesitantly, unsure if you actually were harmless. With another quiet thank you, he grabbed the other two and ushered them out of your apartment. 

Suddenly, the emptiness settled in. The only evidence of the boy being there was left in red on your carpet. Head in your hands, you took a deep breath. The weight of everything crashing down on you finally as you sat at the table. Nearly two in the morning now, snow covered any traces of the boy on the fire escape. Forcing yourself up, you locked the front door and headed to the bathroom. After a long shift, scrubbing everything away in boiling water was always a good solution. 

After an eternity, you wrapped yourself in a clean towel before heading to your room. That’s when you noticed, there on the couch, the Red Hood plushie was gone. Maybe it was the stress, maybe the fact that three vigilantes had been in your apartment, or maybe just that it was 2:30 in the morning. Tears welled in your eyes as you laughed at the missing plushie. After the events that played out that night, going to bed with a good laugh might just be what you needed. 

—————————————————————————

Jason liked taking care of people. It was buried somewhere deep beneath the violence, the sarcasm, the helmet, the terrifying reputation, and the lifetime’s worth of anger issues, but it was there. Raw and instinctive. He liked memorizing what people needed before they asked for it. He liked patching wounds, carrying heavy things, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, checking locks twice before bed. Maybe it came from a childhood where nobody took care of him properly. Maybe it came from being Robin once upon a time, before the world had split him open and rebuilt him meaner. Whatever the reason, taking care of someone he loved felt as natural to him as breathing.

Unfortunately for him, y/n would rather throw herself into oncoming traffic than accept assistance gracefully.

Which was deeply inconvenient considering Jason Todd had money now. Not respectable money, obviously. Not “stocks and mutual funds” money like Bruce. Jason’s finances existed in a morally gray area populated by terrified drug lords, black-market deals, confiscated cash, and the occasional envelope Bruce shoved into his hands disguised as “mission funding” when they both knew it was guilt money.

Jason accepted all of it without shame.

And when he got a girlfriend? Jesus Christ.

He immediately developed the overwhelming urge to spend every cent on her.

Not in an obnoxious way. Not because he thought she couldn’t survive on her own. If anything, y/n surviving independently despite Gotham actively trying to eat people alive was one of the things he admired most about her. She worked herself ragged, paid her own bills, handled her own problems, and carried herself with this stubborn, infuriating pride that made Jason want to simultaneously shake her and marry her.

But he loved her. Of course he wanted to make her life easier.

Apparently that made him public enemy number one.

Every single attempt at paying for something turned into a war of attrition.

Coffee dates were the worst. Jason would buy their drinks with the smug satisfaction of a man fulfilling his divine purpose as a boyfriend, only for his phone to buzz ten minutes later.

Y/N SENT YOU $10.00

Jason would stare at the notification with pure resentment.

Once, after their fourth argument about it that month, he’d deliberately paid for dinner while she was in the bathroom, thinking he’d finally outsmarted her.

The next morning she’d transferred him exact reimbursement down to the tax.

Psychotic behavior.

Another time, he’d tried being direct about it.

“You know normal girlfriends let their boyfriends spoil them,” he muttered while leaning against her kitchen counter.

Y/n, sitting cross-legged on the counter eating a banana with the confidence of a woman impossible to embarrass, looked unimpressed. “Normal boyfriends don’t source their income like Batman’s most wanted.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“That’s accurate.”

Jason narrowed his eyes before pulling a thick stack of cash from his jacket pocket and tossing it onto the counter beside her. “Take it.”

She glanced at the money, then at him, then back at the money. “I don’t want your guilt money from your daddy.”

“It’s not guilt money,” Jason corrected immediately. “It’s drug money.”

Y/n stared at him slowly, banana halfway to her mouth, looking genuinely uncertain whether she should kiss him or book him a therapist.

Jason had shrugged like that clarified everything.

Because to him, honestly, it did.

Then there were the bills.

God, the bills argument nearly killed him.

It had been late evening, rain tapping softly against the apartment windows while Gotham drowned itself in neon and smog outside. Y/n’s apartment wasn’t terrible, but it was small in that distinctly Gotham way—thin walls, unreliable heating, pipes that screamed like dying animals whenever someone showered. Jason practically lived there anyway despite technically owning a much nicer place. Mostly because he preferred her cluttered little apartment over any penthouse money could buy.

She was sprawled on top of him on the couch, wearing one of his hoodies and soft sleep shorts, her cheek pressed into his neck while he worked on his laptop balanced precariously against her lower back. One of his arms rested around her waist automatically, hand underneath the hoodie, fingertips tracing absent patterns against her skin while he typed with the other hand.

“Ugh,” she groaned suddenly into his throat. “My landlord is up my ass about rent.”

Jason’s fingers paused over the keyboard instantly.

“How much?”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“You were gonna offer money.”

“I was gonna offer money.”

She made a triumphant sound against his skin. “Exactly. Denied.”

Jason clicked his tongue in annoyance, shifting slightly beneath her. “Baby, I basically live here anyway. Let me help with bills.”

“No.”

“You’re working doubles.”

“I’ll survive.”

“You shouldn’t have to survive,” he muttered.

That made her lift her head slightly. Her expression softened around the edges when she looked at him, because no matter how much they argued about this, she knew where it came from. Jason wasn’t controlling. Wasn’t condescending. He wasn’t trying to own her.

He just loved hard. Recklessly. Like a man who never learned moderation.

“I wanna do things myself,” she said quietly. “I need to prove I can.”

Jason looked at her for a long moment.

Most people saw anger first when they looked at him. Violence. Volatility. But underneath all of that, Jason understood pride better than almost anyone. Understood what it meant to claw your own survival out of the dirt with bloody hands. Understood how humiliating dependence could feel.

So instead of arguing, he just sighed softly through his nose and kissed the top of her head.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”

Which should’ve worried her.

Because when Jason Todd stopped arguing, it usually meant he’d already decided to do something significantly worse.

The next afternoon, while Jason was in the middle of interrogating a weapons trafficker, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

He glanced at the caller ID and immediately smiled beneath the Red Hood helmet.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

“You paid my fucking rent?”

Jason leaned casually against the damp brick wall beside him while the criminal tied to the chair whimpered quietly in the background.

“For the next six months, yeah.” He checked his gun lazily. “Oh, and your car’s in the shop. Your brakes sounded like a dying walrus. Figured I’d get them replaced.”

There was silence on the other end.

Then came one long inhale that positively radiated fury.

Jason grinned harder.

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Yeah?”

“You are insane.”

“You still love me though.”

“I’m considering arson.”

“That’s my girl.”

The line went dead with an aggressive beep.

Jason stood there for another second staring at the phone in his hand, helpless affection spreading warm through his chest before he could stop it. The kind that made him feel seventeen again. Human again. Soft in places he usually kept armored shut.

If anyone ever saw the look on his face right now, Jason would actually have to kill them.

With a sigh, he slid the phone back into his jacket and finally turned toward the terrified criminal still zip-tied to the chair in the abandoned warehouse.

“You know,” he muttered while pulling another zip tie tighter around the guy’s wrists, “I buy one woman six months’ rent and suddenly I’m the bad guy.”

The guy had apparently developed a death wish.

“F-females,” he laughed nervously, sweat dripping down his temple. “Am I right?”

Jason’s smile vanished instantly.

Gone was the lovesick idiot paying for brake repairs. This was the man criminals whispered about in panic.

Jason grabbed the chair sharply, yanking it forward until the man nearly choked on his own breath.

“That,” Jason said quietly, “is my girl you’re talking about.”

The criminal went pale.

“And trust me,” Jason continued, voice calm in the way that scared people most, “you do not wanna disrespect the woman willing to date me voluntarily.”

“R-right. I’m sorry. Sorry.”

Jason stared at him another second before sighing heavily and releasing the chair.

©𝓐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍𝒑𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒂. do not copy, translate, or repost my work on any other sites without my permission. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

he’s also the type of man to bring you flowers just because. at first it really is sweet. he brings them over on every date. then every time he makes an excuse to see you, he’s got flowers tucked away somewhere on his person even when you told him he didn’t have to bring it on every outing.

sometimes it’s just flowers he picks up on his way to get you, intricately picked and tied with a stem, like he really took his time choosing them. other times, it’s when he picks you up from work with a massive bouquet of snapdragons cause you said you liked them once. he’ll wait outside patiently, one hand in his pocket and the other gripping the flowers, biting the inside of cheek until you come outside. it’s always to see the smile on your face and the hint of surprise even when you knew it was coming.

he lives for that look.

when you call him drunk for the first time, having a friend phone him for you at a party you didn’t even want to go to, even then he brought a dozen roses. arriving to pick you up in under five minutes with a thin layer of sweat over his brow. he even apologized while he held your hair back when you threw up and continued while you drifted off asleep after he tucked you in.

“—seriously though, i would’ve brought a bigger bouquet but the store was closing and it was all they had so i just put the good flowers from the remaining together and—”

when you woke up in the morning with the flowers in a mason jar because all of the other vases you had were currently being used, you tried to tell him they were getting to be too much. the man claimed that’s nonsense and that there’s no such thing while continuing to softly sing whatever he was playing while cooking breakfast for when you woke.

then, he danced with you in the kitchen to distract you from protesting. but when he spun you and you groaned all groggy and hungover, he kept you close to his chest instead, humming the soothing tune. rocking the two of you back and forth in your dingy kitchen, shifting from either leg until you melted right into him. cheek pressed to his hard chest.

the music plays softly from the kitchen and he coos by your ear while he steadily dances you over to the couch with him, lyrics pouring from his love stricken lips.

“she looks just like an angel.” tucking your head into the crook of his neck while you bask in his warmth. still humming the same tune as he softly sings, “—when she walks across the room.”

it’s so easy to fall into him when he’s like this.

later in the week he thrifts you a dozen more vases that went with the decor of your house along with a couple extra trinkets he thought you’d like.

he keeps a photo of you from that morning in his wallet, tucked in his arms and mouth parted in sleep. he’s smiling with his head tilted just barely in the frame, though the focus is on you resting on his chest. next to it is a kiss you left when you saw it when pulled out his wallet, lipstick mark right on his cheek in the photo.

he actually got it laminated so your kiss never fades away.

when he slowly moves his life into your home from all the late nights he stays over, he insists on laying the rent and utilities just because he can. your name is on the lease but he doesn’t give a shit because he meant what he said when he told you what’s mine is yours.

he starts buying mundane things in pairs too because, “i couldn’t just buy one, they come in pairs, you can’t just split them up.”

he’s made any excuse to buy you things that remind him of you, and that meant a lot since he turned out to be more sentimental than you thought. jason would buy you pastries and chocolate with the cheesiest line like i thought of you because it’s sweet like you.

that’s how you knew i love you came in many forms with him.

at first he struggled with saying it so instead you see it in his actions. though the man is sentimental and the first time he says it and you repeat it right back, the hearts in his eyes expand and he slots your hand into his. jason never struggles to remind you after that time. the love that he drowns you in is the only kind you’d want to receive, and that’s just the kind of man he is. and jason todd is that type of man to do acts of service for you solely because he is capable without ever being told to.

you hate washing the dishes? that’s okay with him! jason has no problem wiping them down and scrubbing them clean.

“you know the saying, if life is a loop full of dirty dishes and laundry, all that means is it’s means a lifetime full of home cooked food and clean clothes.” humming gruffly while he scrubs, turning his head back to find you still staring like you’d fallen for him all over again and grin, “or something like that ma.”

and physical contact? he’s like velcro to your skin.

while you cook, his head is tucked between your neck and your shoulder while he’s pressed against your back. occasionally touching your hand and stirring for you.

even after having a long night and getting in after you, he’ll wake up with you for work and watch you get ready for the day. he’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed and his hair disheveled. watching you with eager eyes as you do your skincare or dress yourself. it didn’t make you feel embarrassed because it wasn’t exactly lustful. it felt like he was burning the memory and ingraining you as the sole purpose of everything good in his life because that’s exactly what he’d tell you that you are.

or you could be sitting on the couch and watching television when jason decides it’s time to strike. just moments after coming home, he plops his full weight ontop of you and groans. you make a sound that resembled a cushion losing air but he just settles a leg between yours to take some weight off of you. he pulls your shirt up just enough for him to slot his head underneath and steal some of your warmth from your skin.

you complained that he’s gotta at least wash his face. told him he’s stretching the collar of your shirt out with his head when his hair pokes out to touch your chin. but slowly, you press a kiss against his lips, watching him deepen it before it gets sloppy and he starts to trail his way back down your neck. lower and lower before disappearing beneath the fabric. he groans cause you’ve got no bra on. when he rubs his face between your breasts and nuzzles until he’s comfortable, you gasp softly. the stubble on his chin rubbing against the sensitive skin, side to side until he stops to take a bite of the plush flesh.

you laugh when he settles. “did you just motorboat me?”

jason blows against your skin while he huffs and does it again to get you to squeal and shove him away just for him to grip onto you tighter.

“can’t a man just appreciate a work of art?”

a/n: idrk what this is but i love jason and he’s the cheesiest, loverboy to ever exist idc

You groan, turning back on your heel to return to the counter. It’s made of old wood-grain, laminated. Already chipping at the edges. It sits catty-corner to the door so you can see both the entrance and the back aisle. Which you have to, since the cameras—inside and out—are definitely fake.

There’s an old-school bell on a spring, attached to the door. It announces every customer, loud and impossible to muffle. Hearing bells at two in the morning isn’t ideal, but the store runs on pure spite, and your rent needs to be paid somehow.

Speaking of the devil, you hear the bell ring.

You straighten your spine, mentally readying yourself for another of Marjorie’s scoldings. You wonder what you forgot to do now, or who will be the recipient of her wrath. Raising your head, you open your mouth to muster some kind of excuse for whatever she’ll throw at you, but you stop dead in your tracks.

The person who walks through the door isn’t the short, hot-tempered old lady you’ve been working with for the past few months.

No.

You first notice the blood. The way it’s still wet, clinging onto the helmet, which is in the same shade. A man whom you have never seen in person stands just a few feet away from you. A hip holster hangs off of him, with something metal shining under the unbearable fluorescent lights. You don’t have to guess. It might be a gun, or he might have a knife stashed in another holster you haven’t spotted yet.

You’ve seen freaks in this shop—the guy who tried to pay with a bag of loose teeth, the woman who screamed at the beer cooler for ten minutes. Some are even sort of endearing when you learn how to handle them.

But you haven’t seen Red fucking Hood. And you sure as hell don’t know how to handle him.

What the actual hell? Marjorie didn’t train you for this. There isn’t a “how to deal with a vigilante showing up” section in any manual.

You freeze on the spot. Your hands grip the cold counter. For a moment, you think of taking the energy drinks from the small cooler and just throwing them at the man so maybe, just maybe, he’ll find the attempt pathetic enough and let you go. You can hear him step closer. You’re sure the metal cans won’t save you now.

You take a single step back. You hit the cigarette wall behind you. Marjorie would kill you if she found the cigarette wall in a mess, but it won’t really matter if the man approaching you gets to you first.

God, he is bigger in person. What the hell does he even eat to look like that?

What are you even thinking right now?

It only takes him a few steps to reach the counter from the entrance. A small trail of dirty footsteps follows him, and you grimace at the drops of blood sticking to his boots. There’s a small… handle sticking out of a holster lower on his leg.

Oh, that’s where the knife is. Lucky you.

You swallow down the breath stuck in your throat as he stands in front of the counter. He looks everywhere but at you, eyeing the energy drinks beside you and the cigarette wall. Instinctively, you raise your hands in front of you, as if to show him you won’t try anything stupid, like throwing energy drinks at him.

You can swear you hear something like an amused scoff coming from underneath his helmet as he looks back at you.

So, he finds this funny, huh.

“I’m not going to bite your head off.” He speaks first, because you sure as hell won’t talk to him first. You doubt Marjorie would scold you for customer service when the customer is Red Hood himself.

“So the knife there is just for show?” The words escape your lips without your permission, and you regret it instantly.

“I do love a good accessory,” he clicks his tongue, as if he’s being hilarious.

He raises a hand, and you watch the way the leather of his gloves flexes. They’re dark in color, tactical, fitted, covering to his wrist. The fabric leaves a piece of his forearm exposed. Your eyes trail over the showing skin. There are a few scars littered on the surface, running down his arm like rivers.

“You can drop your hands,” his voice breaks you out of your thoughts… about his arms?

“So, you aren’t suspicious or anything?” You drop your hands to your sides, “What if I—”

“You don’t scare me, sweetheart. It’s mostly the other way around.” He says the word “sweetheart” a little too easily. It almost sounds like honey rolling of his tongue. If he didn’t have a gun and knife strapped to him, maybe you’d even blush.

You hope you aren’t visibly blushing. The heat in your cheeks is your problem, not his.

“I could call the cops,” you challenge, a newfound confidence seeping into your words.

“And they’d definitely come here. After half an hour, give or take. But I’d already have taken what I came here for.”

Yep, he’s actually going to do something horrible. You thought Red Hood took care of criminals, not some cashier like you, who, yes, might have skimmed some dollars out of the cash register a few times. But that doesn’t warrant a visit from Red Hood himself. Your jaw tightens, while your hands clench. You’re sure your nails are digging crescents into your palm right now.

“And what would that be?”

If you’re going to be beaten up or robbed by Gotham’s most smart-mouthed vigilante, you’re not going down silent. Maybe you should scream. Just to make this harder for him.

He puts his other hand on his hip. For a moment, you think he’s reaching for his holster, but his voice from the helmet reaches you again.

“I want a cigarette.”

What.

“You want a what?”

Red Hood points a finger at the cigarette wall behind you. You follow the gesture to the Marlboros sitting in the middle row, just behind the locked glass screen. The “21+” sign is hanging on the screen with the paint already peeling off its surface.

He wants a fucking cigarette. And he’s saying all of this as if he didn’t just threaten you a moment ago.

“Seriously?”

“I am over twenty-one, if you’re wondering.”

“That’s not,” you groan. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

He shrugs. Throwing that energy drink can might have been an actual good idea.

“I can’t show you my ID, unfortunately,” he gives you a faux sigh through his helmet. Both of his hands are on his hips now, and you somehow calm down seeing that he’s not reaching for a weapon. “Secret identity and all. You understand, no?”

“You just had to mess with me, huh?”

“Couldn’t help myself.”

You turn your back slowly, still trying to keep an eye on him, all while letting out an annoyed huff. He mimics the sound of your sneer right back at you. You snap your head back at him. He, on the other hand, looks at one of the shelves, as if he didn’t do anything at all. You can feel something akin to a laugh building up in your body because he looks ridiculous, if you ignore the blood. His hands are on his hips, showing you he’s not going for his weapons. He’s looking away like a child caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

You open the cigarette wall with a turn of your keys. The glass screen moves, and you grab a single pack of Marlboros. You scan the pack in silence. It’s not like the heavy and tense silence from before, when he first walked through the door, bloody and intimidating. Now it feels like he’s actually a customer. A weird one, but it’s Gotham. You’re not surprised.

“Smoking is bad for you, y’know,” you say quietly, almost mumbling. Though he hears you anyway.

“You worried, sweetheart?”

“Oh, of course,” you answered with a raised brow, hoping the sarcasm was obvious in your voice. “Who else would walk in bloody in the shop just to buy cigarettes?”

He reaches for his pocket. Your eyes trail to his forearms again. You hadn’t noticed before, but the veins on his arms are barely visible. Though you can see the way they are indented in his skin, between the scars. He lays a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter. To his credit, the money at least isn’t bloodied.

“Next time at…” he looks at the clock on the wall behind you, the cracked glass shows that it’s eight pm now. “How does five sound?”

“If you don’t come with your accessories and blood, maybe. Just maybe.”

You hand over the cigarette pack to him. Your fingers brush his, and for a split second, his fingers freeze. It’s like he’s surprised and flustered by the contact.

“A deal breaker, then?” He lets out a cough before grabbing the Marlboros and taking a step back from the counter.

You tilt your head, trying to figure out in your mind what he looks like right now behind that helmet. His voice sounds hoarse. All because you touched him. Though he hasn’t expressed any discomfort yet.

“No,” you answer. “Not exactly…”

God, why is your stupid heart talking instead of your brain?

He perks up. You can see it in how his shoulders pick up. His grip on the cigarette pack changes; he’s now twirling it between his fingers.

Yep, you’re never leaving your apartment ever again.

He does have big hands, though.

“Five o’clock, then,” he says, like it’s already decided. Like you already said yes.

“I didn’t agree to anything.”

“You didn’t say no either, sweetheart.”

There it is again. That word. Dripping off his tongue like he’s known you for years. Like he has any right to call you that when you can’t even see his face.

He tucks the Marlboros into his jacket pocket. Takes a step back. Then another.

You should feel relieved. You are relieved. Probably.

“Same time tomorrow,” he says from the door. The bell hasn’t rung yet. He’s waiting. For what, you don’t know.

“Same blood?” you ask, because your mouth has officially divorced your brain.

He tilts his helmet. That same amused energy from before.

“Maybe less. If you’re lucky.”

The bell rings. He’s gone.

You stare at the door for a full ten seconds. Then, at the crumpled bills on the counter. Then at the trail of dirty footprints leading to the entrance.

Then back at the door.

What the hell just happened?

You grab the nearest energy drink can—not to throw, just to hold. The metal is cold against your palm. Your heart is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm.

And you hate yourself a little for already knowing you’ll be here at five o’clock tomorrow.

+++

“Wait, say that again,” Marjorie points at your face, as if you’re in the wrong. “A vigilante walked through my doors and threatened my employee?”

“He didn’t really threaten me,” you point out, but the exasperated look on the woman’s face makes you backtrack. “I mean, he looked scary. He didn’t lay a hand on me, though.”

Unfortunately.

You should have stayed home.

“You said he had a gun!”

“And a knife.”

“Oh, my god. And he smokes, too. Children these days.”

“I don’t think his smoking is the main issue here,” you move past the counter to the aisles.

You didn’t call Marjorie about what happened last night as soon as he had left. In her book, if something isn’t bleeding or broken, calling isn’t necessary. You cleaned the drop of blood from the counter and closed up last night. The streets felt just a tad brighter under the streetlights, knowing a certain vigilante might be looking out for you. Who knows, maybe he’ll appreciate the fact that you sold him the cigarettes without calling the cops on him.

Now you’re here, the next day. You’ve been buzzing around the shop all day. The sticky floors, even though you cleaned them yesterday, are still holding onto the grime. The fluorescent light bulb above the counter needed a few hits before it stopped flickering. You’ve been listening to the rattle of the beer cooler since you clocked in.

Marjorie’s incessant badgering about Red Hood unfortunately did reach your ears over the cooler’s rattle.

“Did he hurt you?” She asks again, and you, surprisingly, find the concern a bit endearing.

“Aw,” you coo, “you do care about me, Marj.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, idiot,” she scowls. “Who else would work for me if you died, or worse, quit?”

“No. He didn’t hurt me,” you deadpan. “He didn’t take anything. He paid for a Marlboro and took off.”

You haven’t mentioned the fact that he might visit again. You’re not planning on Marjorie finding out. She’ll leave in a few hours, and you will hang onto that stupid and foolish hope that a man whose face you’ve never seen will come to see you. You spent a few more minutes today in front of the mirror, too.

God, what are you doing?

“Marlboro?” Marjorie raises a brow. “He doesn’t even have taste. He should have gotten one of those… what are they called?”

“Yellow Spirits?”

“Yes, those.”

“You’re only saying that because they cost more.”

“If he’s bothering my employees, the least he can do is pay me.”

You bend down to the box near your feet. It’s full of some brand of cereal you can’t remember the name of. Something generic for an even more generic convenience store.

Marjorie approaches you near the aisle. Her brows are furrowed, and her wrinkles are even more pronounced today. The corners of her mouth are pulled into a thin line. As if she’s actually worried.

She starts digging into her pocket. You turn your head, curious about what she’s doing. She pulls out something that looks like a… taser?

“Marjorie, what is that?”

“Kid, we both know I don’t have the means to get you a gun,” she clicks her tongue, gesturing the taser your way, “but this should do the trick. It ain’t one of those harmless ones either. It packs a big punch.”

You grab the taser from her hand. It feels heavy in your grip. You imagine using it against anyone, though you don’t think you’ll be pointing it towards Red Hood anytime soon. First, stupidly enough, you hope he won’t give you a reason to use it. Secondly, you’re sure it won’t work against a man shaped like a mountain.

“Thanks, Marj,” you pocket the taser in your apron, the one Marjorie forces you to wear all your shift.

“It’s Marjorie,” she scoffs. “Now, I’ll get going. My heart cannot take another one of your ridiculous night stories. My poor knees need a break.”

As if she’s the one restocking.

She’s already half out of the door before you can even say goodbye. Not that she’d say it back. So much for her poor knees.

You turn back to the aisle. There are still a few more boxes unopened. The shop is relatively small one, so you’re not too worried about the amount of work waiting for you.

You look at the cracked clock near the register. There are a few minutes left before it strikes five. You bite your lip. There’s a strange feeling of impatience and exhilaration mixing in your stomach, all like a bad concoction.

This is how crazy people die in those superhero movies, all because they think that they’ve got a connection with a murder. You are very much that type of crazy person. It’s almost like Gotham has entirely changed you, making your eyes locked onto the door, awaiting a certain someone.

To your utter surprise, the bell rings. You feel your knees getting weak. You step away from the aisle that was blocking your way to the front door, half expecting Red Hood to show up and actually rob you or something; you’re not sure what people like him get up to.

Your heart is beating against your chest. There’s something deeply wrong with you. You consider running out the back door, but you’re already in the line of sight of the entrance.

He already saw you.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, sweetheart.”

The “he” turned out to be not a bloodied costume-wearing vigilante, but your loyalest regular—Jason Todd. You still don’t understand why he keeps visiting. A small part of your heart hopes it’s because he finds the cashier, you, cute.

He’s wearing a black T-shirt. It’s cut off around the forearms. You see familiar faint scars. You’ve never asked Jason about them. He did notice you staring once, and he explained that he had had a few accidents with his motorcycle. Your heart pangs uncomfortably at the reminder of him being in pain. The shirt clings to his chest in a way that will not leave your mind this entire week. It rides up slightly around his waist, exposing just a small part of his skin. You can see the tattoos peeking out from underneath the fabric, just above the leather belt around his hips.

This is too much. Way too much for a full day shift.

Wow. Both him and Red Hood. That’s low. Even for you.

You feel a sense of disappointment, as if you were played by Red Hood. But it’s not like he owed you anything.

Jason tilts his head. A few of the white strands of his hair fall down on his forehead. They frame his face in an effortlessly handsome way, so much so that you want to punch the subtle grin off his face. You’re sure Marjorie would fire you for that, considering Jason is probably the only customer of this shop she actually likes.

“Jason,” you finally get the words past your lips, “it’s just you.”

“Just me?” he places a hand on his chest in faux hurt.

He steps into the shop. His gate is steady. In a way that is the opposite of yours. You’re sure you’re shaking like a leaf right now, gripping the bag of cereal even harder. You scold yourself mentally for freezing up like this.

You can see the way Jason’s face shifts. Maybe he noticed how off you are today. He’s always so perceptive, a trait you haven’t yet decided is stupidly attractive or attractively dooming for you. It reminds you of that one time you tried hiding a burn you had gotten in the shop from him, but he still noticed. He walked to the pharmacy across the street just to buy a weird cream you had never heard of, but you appreciated the gesture either way.

No one had really done that for you before. Not without expecting something in return.

He reaches you in just a few steps. You wonder how he moves so quickly. In a way that doesn’t tick you off either. He raises his hands, almost to show he’s trying to calm you down.

“You okay?” He asks, voice laced with concern. His tone is softer, too. Like cigarettes wrapped in velvet fabric.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I feel like a million bucks.”

Who even says that?

You cough, trying to clear your throat. With a tilt of your head, you gesture to the register. Jason follows your gaze. He lets out a small sigh and follows you to the counter.

“So,” you try to force your voice to sound chirpy. It seems wrong. “What can I get you?”

By the look on Jason’s concerned face, you’re sure he noticed the strain in your voice, too. The soft glint in your eyes makes your heart tighten. You can’t take your anger out on him. It’s unfair.

“Is there anything I can do?” Jason offers, and the guilt in his voice makes you want to crawl under the counter.

For a moment, you wonder why he’s so hell-bent on comforting you. Especially when he has nothing to do with your stupid infatuation with a vigilante. Well, you have a small crush on Jason, too, but the future you will be the one who unpacks that.

“It’s nothing,” you lie, already reaching for the yellow Spirits behind the glass. Your fingers fumble with the keys. “Rough night. You know how it is.”

“I don’t,” he says, leaning against the counter. His forearm brushes against the chipped wood. You watch the muscles shift under his skin. “But I’ve got time if you wanna talk about it.”

“You’re buying cigarettes, not listening to me talk all day. This isn’t therapy.”

“Same thing, sweetheart.”

There it is. Sweetheart. The same word Red Hood used. Your brain short-circuits for half a second before you remember—Jason has been calling you that for months. Way before last night.

It doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself. It’s just a word.

“You’re staring,” Jason says, amused.

“I’m obviously glaring,” you correct, shoving the yellow pack across the counter. “There’s a big difference.”

He doesn’t reach for the cigarettes. Instead, he tilts his head—and there. That’s the same tilt. The same one Red Hood used when he found you funny. Your stomach flips.

“You glare at all your customers like that, or just me?”

Two can play that game.

“Just the ones who show up at five o’clock looking like that.”

“Like what?”

You gesture vaguely at all of him. The arms. The chest. The stupid white streak in his hair.

“Like you just walked off a movie set.”

Jason’s grin spreads slowly. You feel heat pool up in your stomach. Suddenly, it feels like you’re back to last night. As if he is again, right in front of you, and you’re not sure how to handle this. How to handle Jason and Red Hood.

God, you’re going to hell. If there’s even one.

“So you have noticed.”

‘I notice when my regulars change their look,” you say, deflecting. “New shirt?”

“This old thing?” He plucks at the fabric, tugging on it a bit too harshly. You wonder if he’s nervous. “You like it?”

Jason—to your surprise and amusement—sounds actually nervous. The idea that you can fluster him lights your skin on fire.

“I liked the leather jacket better.”

“Noted.”

He’s still not taking the cigarettes. He’s just looking at you. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. The same way Red Hood looked at you—like you were interesting. Like you weren’t just another cashier.

“You’re doing it again,” you say.

“Doing what?”

"Looking at me like I’m hiding something. Which I am definitely not."

Jason laughs. It’s low, warm, and it does something stupid to your chest.

“Maybe you are hiding something,” he says. “You’re harder to figure out than most.”

“That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received.”

“It’s not backhanded,” he says, and you can get drunk on the flustered tone of his voice. “I’m just bad at words.”

“You’re a regular. You come here three times a week. I’ve learned that you’re not bad at anything.”

His eyebrows go up. “Anything?”

Shit.

“I meant—talking. I meant talking.”

“Sure you did.”

He finally takes the cigarettes. His fingers brush yours—deliberate this time. You’re sure of it. His hand lingers for half a second, in a way that’s longer than necessary.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

You stare at him. He stares back. The fluorescent light buzzes. The beer cooler rattles. Somewhere outside, a car alarm starts wailing.

“You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?” you say.

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

“Fine. Same time tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He tucks the yellow pack into his back pocket. No jacket today means you can see the outline of his wallet, the curve of his—

Stop it.

But he’s totally doing this on purpose.

Jason steps closer to the counter. You can see the faint freckles dotted across his pale skin. There’s a light scar running down his cheek. You wonder how a motorcycle accident could do all of this. You know he’s hiding something from you. For a second, you wonder what it would feel like to count his freckles and trace the scar.

You can see the muscles in Jason’s shoulders flex as he leans over the counter. His hand reaches for his other pocket. He takes out a lighter you haven’t seen before. A raised cross spreads across its surface, darkened in the grooves.

He places it on the counter between you, sliding it toward you.

You pick it up. It’s heavier than you expected. Warm from being in his pocket. Your thumb traces the engraving. Along the edge of the metal, barely noticeable unless you know to look, a Latin phrase is etched in fine, precise lettering—worn just enough to suggest it is carried often, turned over in someone’s hands.

“What’s this say?”

“Something stupid that I got when I was nineteen.” He doesn’t elaborate. “Light it up for me?”

You look up. “What?”

“The cigarette.” He pulls the yellow pack from his back pocket—when did he grab that?—and taps one out. Holds it between his fingers. Doesn’t move to light it himself, just looks at you. “You’ve got the lighter.”

“You have hands.”

“And you’re holding it.”

The fluorescent light makes his eyes look greener than usual. Or maybe that’s just the angle. Or maybe you’re hallucinating because of what is happening right now.

“You want me to light your cigarette,” you say slowly, “over the counter. In the middle of my shift.”

“I want a lot of things,” he says. “Right now I’m just asking for a light.”

Your heart is doing something stupid. Your hands are definitely not shaking as you flick the lighter. Once. Twice. On the third try, a flame catches.

Jason leans in, closer than he needs to. His fingers brush yours as he brings the cigarette to the flame. His eyes don’t leave yours. You can’t take your gaze off the sea-green color of his eyes.

The cigarette catches. He takes a slow drag. Exhales away from your face—polite, even now—and the smoke curls up toward the flickering lights.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

He picks the lighter off the counter. His fingers linger over yours again.

“Same time tomorrow? Actually, I might be a little late.”

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

You can’t think of a single clever thing to say. Your brain is full of smoke and green eyes and the weight of a silver lighter that’s no longer in your hand.

“Fine,” you manage. “Same time tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He tucks the lighter back into his pocket. The cigarette hangs from his lips. He’s halfway to the door when you call out.

“You forgot your cigarettes.”

He glances at the yellow pack still sitting on the counter. Then back at you through the smoke.

“No, I didn’t.”

The bell rings.

He’s gone.

+++

The next night is different. The fluorescent lights are too rough on your eyes. The counter is too cold. The rattling of the beer cooler is too loud. Marjorie didn’t drop by today either. You find yourself missing her incessant badgering, even if it does get a bit too much sometimes.

You feel lonely.

Ridiculous.

Maybe it’s because Jason didn’t show up today, and you’ve been staring at the front door like a kicked puppy. You’ve been lied to by him and Red Hood two times already. Or maybe, you’re just a fool to think that either of them would actually show up for you.

You sigh, leaning your elbow over the counter. The cold surface bites at your skin, but you don’t really care. Your thoughts are buzzing in your head nonstop. It’s all like an ambience you want to shut out.

The bell rings.

Your head snaps up, eyes trailing to the door.

A man walks in. Average height. Average build. Grey hoodie. Jeans that don’t quite fit right. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold—or against something else. You can’t tell. His face is the kind you’d forget five seconds after looking away.

Nobody, you think. Just another nobody.

You straighten up anyway, because Marjorie might not be here, but her voice lives in your head rent-free. “Don’t slouch,” she’d say. “Makes you look like you don’t care. Customers can smell apathy.”

“Evening,” you call out, forcing something pleasant into your voice.

He grunts. Doesn’t look at you. Wanders the aisles like he’s searching for something. You watch him pick up a bag of chips. Put it back. A candy bar. Put it back. A Gatorade—blue, the electrolyte one—he holds onto that one.

His hands are shaking.

Late at night, you tell yourself. Long shift. You shake too, sometimes, when you’re running on three hours of sleep and bad coffee. Don’t judge him too quickly. Just mind your own business.

He walks to the counter. Sets the Gatorade down. The bottle thuds against the laminate—harder than it needs to.

“That everything?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at the bottle.

“Sir?”

He looks up.

And there it is. That thing in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. He’s not looking at you like a customer—he’s looking at you like you’re not even there.

“Two eighty-nine,” you say, voice smaller than you want it to be.

He reaches for his pocket. Pulls out a crumpled five. Smooths it on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times. His fingers are pale and knuckles white.

You make a change and slide it across. He doesn’t take it.

“Sir? Your change.”

He blinks and pockets the money without counting. “Thanks.”

Then he walks to the door.

Good, you think. He’s leaving. You were wrong. He’s just some guy.

He stops at the door and doesn’t turn around. He keeps just standing there. His one hand is on the frame. The bell is hanging inches from his head.

A cold feeling, like a wretched thing crawls up your spine. Lock the register, you think. Your keys are in your pocket. Lock it. Call—

He turns around.

The Gatorade is still on the counter, just as he left it.

He walks back, and not slow this time—fast. His footsteps don’t echo—they thud. Every step is a warning call.

“I changed my mind,” he says.

“About the Gatorade?”

“About all of it.”

His hand goes to his waistband.

You know before you see it. Before he pulls it out. You know.

The gun is small and black. It’s the kind that fits in a waistband without printing. God, how did you not see it before? He holds it at his side, not pointing it at you yet—but the threat is there.

“Open the register,” he says. His voice isn’t flat anymore; it’s shaking.

A scared man with a gun is worse than an angry one.

Your hands go up automatically. “Okay,” you say. “All right. I’m opening it.”

Your fingers find the keys in your apron. You don’t look away from him. Never look away from the gun.

The register drawer slides open with that familiar ka-ching that’s never sounded so loud before. Now it rings out loudly in your ears over the deathly silence.

“Take it,” you say. “It’s all there. I’m not going to stop you.”

He steps closer, and the gun comes up. It’s pointed at your chest now.

“The safe,” he says. “Open the safe.”

“I don’t have the code. The manager—she doesn’t give it to the night shift. I swear.”

His jaw tightens. His finger moves to the trigger.

This is how I die, you think. In a convenience store that says “PEN” on the door, and just for a register with maybe two hundred dollars in it.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I’m not. Please—”

He reaches across the counter. Grabs your arm, and he grabbed it hard. His fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise.

“Then you’re gonna call her. Right now. And you’re gonna get the code.”

“She won’t—she’s asleep, she’s old, she won’t—”

He yanks and pulls you halfway across the counter. Your hip slams into the edge. Pain shoots up your side.

“I said call her.”

Your head hits something on the way down. The corner of the register, or the counter edge. You’re not sure. All you know is white-hot pain and then warm wetness dripping into your hair.

The bell rings.

You barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.

But he does.

The robber turns. Just for a second. Just long enough to see who walked in.

And then he’s not holding you anymore. Because someone else is holding him.

Red Hood moves like water, like something that was never human to begin with. Your eyes can’t even catch up with his movements.

One second, he’s at the door. Next, his hand is wrapped around the robber’s wrist, twisting until you hear something crack. The gun clatters to the floor. The robber screams—a high, wet sound that barely registers in your foggy brain.

You’re on the ground. When did you fall? The linoleum is cold against your cheek. Sticky, too. There’s blood in your eyes. Your blood. From your head.

Oh, you think. That’s not good.

Red Hood doesn’t say a word—he just moves. A punch to the gut. An elbow to the back. The robber crumples like paper, gasping for air he can’t catch. Hood pins him to the ground with a knee to the spine.

You try to push yourself up. Your arms won’t cooperate. They’re shaking. Everything is shaking.

“Stay down,” Hood says. His voice is modulated. But there’s something underneath it. “Don’t move your head.”

You blink. The world swims. The fluorescent lights blur into halos. You can see his boots—heavy, and splattered with something dark—stepping over the robber’s body, coming towards you.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey. Look at me.”

You try. Your eyes find the helmet. The white lenses. The shine of blood—not his, not his—on his chest plate.

“There you go,” he says. His voice is softer now. The modulator can’t hide that. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

“You came back,” you slur. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth.

“Of course I came back.” He crouches down. His gloved hands hover over you, like he wants to touch but doesn’t know where it’s safe. “I said five o’clock, didn’t I?”

“You’re late. So fucking late.”

A sound from under the helmet—a laugh, a broken one. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m late. I’m sorry.”

Something falls from his jacket. A glint of silver. It skids across the floor and stops near your outstretched hand.

The lighter.

The silver one. The engraved one. Jason’s.

Your brain snags on it like a needle on a record. That’s—that’s his. That’s the one he put in your hand. The one you flicked. The one that was warm from his pocket.

“That’s,” you start, but the words won’t come. Your vision is going dark at the edges. “That’s Jason’s.”

Hood goes very still.

“Jason,” you repeat, because it’s the only word that matters. “You’re—you’re him. You’re—… oh my god.”

“Don’t,” he says. His real voice. The modulator must have cut out. Or maybe your ears are just giving up. “Don’t talk. Just stay awake. Please.”

You try. You really do. But the dark is pulling at you, soft and heavy, and the last thing you see is the lighter—silver and warm and his—sitting on the dirty floor between you.

The last thing you hear is his panicked voice.

“Stay with me. Don’t—shit. Stay awake. Please.”

Then nothing.

+++

The beeping is the first thing you hear.

You can barely find the strength to open your eyes. Your eyelids feel too heavy. There’s a sterile smell around whatever room you are currently in.

The walls are stark white. They stretch unbroken except for the occasional monitor, its screen blinking in steady, indifferent rhythms. A faint antiseptic smell lingers in the air, sharp and clean, threaded with something metallic beneath it. The bed sits at the center, too narrow, sheets pulled tight.

And, you’re in it.

You look to the side of the bed. There’s a small table near you. On top of it, there is a small card. You try to raise your hand, and it’s a miracle you manage to. You grab the card and open it. Your eye recognizes Marjorie’s handwriting.

Get well soon, kid. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, not much an old lady like me can do. You take all the time you need while you’re at the hospital. The GCPD will investigate this even if I have to break down their door. Call me when you’re ready to talk.

— Marj.

You knew she cared about you. Too bad you had to survive a robbery to get proof of that.

Fuck.

You got robbed. Almost shot at. Just for a few hundred dollar bills and a safe you don’t even know the code to.

You thought you were going to die.

Until he showed up.

You push yourself off the bed. The room spins. Your head throbs. You press a hand to your forehead and feel the bandage there, rough against your fingertips. Stitches. Great.

You look around. You’re in a private room. How the hell did you get a private room? Marjorie can barely afford to keep the store’s lights on. Maybe the hospital made a mistake. Maybe you’re in the wrong bed. Maybe—

The window.

There’s something at the window.

A shape, dark against the night sky. You’re on the third floor—you remember that much from the ambulance ride, the stretcher, the paramedic with kind eyes telling you to stay awake, honey, stay with me—

The shape moves.

A tap, glass against knuckle.

You squint. Your vision is still blurry, but you’d know that silhouette anywhere—the shoulders and the faint movement of dark curls.

Jason is standing on the fire escape.

He doesn’t come in. Just stands there and watches you.

You should be scared. You were scared the first time. But now? Now all you feel is something warm and stupid blooming in your chest.

You reach over and fumble with the window latch. Your fingers are clumsy—the head injury, probably—but you get it open. Cold air rushes in. Gotham smells like rain and exhaust and something that might be smoke in the distance.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says. You can hear the exhaustion underneath.

“You’re not supposed to be on a fire escape,” you shoot back. Your voice comes out hoarse. “Looks like both of us are starting this conversation in horrible ways. But I could scream, and they’d drag you out of here.”

“You wouldn’t,” he tilts his head, like he’s daring you to try.

He could probably cover the distance between you in a second. He’d have his hand over your mouth before you could even let out a squeak.

Why are you imagining his hand on your mouth right now?

“Are you gonna come in?” you ask, trying to get your mind out of the gutter. “Or are you gonna stand out there all night like a creep?”

His hair is a mess—curls sticking up everywhere, the white streak catching the dim light from the monitors. There’s a cut on his cheekbone, fresh. Dark circles under his eyes so deep they look like bruises. He’s wearing the same black shirt from before, the one cut off around the forearms, and you can see the scars now with new eyes. You’re sure the scars are not from a motorcycle.

“You look like shit,” you say.

He laughs. “You’re one to talk.”

“Fair.”

He climbs through the window, but doesn’t sit on the bed—stands near it, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. His hands are shoved in his jacket pockets. The jacket is different tonight. You wonder if he’s wearing anything like armor underneath it. Or maybe, tonight, he’s just your Jason, not Red Hood. Or maybe both. They have always been the same. You were just too blind to see it.

“The lighter,” you say.

He goes still.

“It fell out of your pocket. During the fight. I saw it.”

Jason stares at you. Something passes over his face—fear, maybe, or relief. You still haven’t quite figured that one out, yet.

“I know,” he says.

“Is that how you wanted me to find out? Or did you just get sloppy?”

He flinches. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. You were bleeding. You passed out. I—” He stops. His jaw tightens, as if he’s chewing on words he can’t bring himself to say.

“You what?”

“I panicked.” The words come out rough. Broken. “I don’t panic. I don’t. But you were on the ground, and there was blood in your hair, and I thought—I thought you were—” He can’t finish the sentence.

You reach out. Your hand finds his. His fingers are cold—from the fire escape, from the night, from whatever he was doing before he got here. You hold on anyway.

“I’m not dead,” you say.

“I can see that. And you’re not good at bedside manners.”

“So stop looking at me like I’m gonna disappear. Plus, I’m the one in the hospital bed. If anyone has to work on their bedside manners, it’s you.” You jab a finger in his chest. The skin behind the fabric of the jacket feels like a wall.

Definitely not the time to be thinking about his chest.

He looks down at your hands. Then back at your face. Something shifts in his expression. The tension cracks.

He doesn’t talk right away. Instead, he pulls his hand around you—gently, like he’s afraid of hurting you, and reaches into his jacket pocket. When his hand comes back out, he’s holding the lighter.

The silver-engraved one. He turns it over in his fingers.

“I came back for it. After the ambulance took you. It was still on the floor.”

“So you didn’t come to see me?”

He gives you a look. That look, the one that says you know exactly why I’m here.

“I came to see you,” he says. “I’ve been out there for three hours.”

“Three hours?”

“You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”

You stare at him. This man. This impossible man. Buys cigarettes from you three times a week. Calls you sweetheart like it’s your actual name. Climbed through your hospital window at—what, two in the morning?—just to make sure you were okay.

“You’re an idiot,” you say.

“I’ve been told.”

“A stupid idiot.”

“Also been told. Also, stupid and idiot are synonyms.”

You grab his wrist. Pull him toward the bed. He stumbles—actually stumbles, like you’ve caught him off guard—and ends up sitting on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can smell the smoke on his jacket and the gunpowder. It’s intoxicating. It reminds you of the time his nose was almost brushing yours as you lit his cigarette.

“You’re staying,” you say.

“I can’t—”

“You can. The nurses don’t come in until six. That’s—” you glance at the clock on the wall, the one with the cracked glass that reminds you of the store, “—four hours. You’re staying for four hours.”

“Four hours,” he repeats.

“And then you’re gonna come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And you’re gonna keep coming back until I’m out of here. And then you’re gonna come to the store. And you’re gonna buy your stupid yellow cigarettes or the Marlboro ones, I don’t care. And you’re gonna let me light them for you. With your lighter. And you will ask me out on a date. Preferably not one that starts in a convenience store.”

His mouth twitches. “That’s a lot of demands for someone who just woke up from a concussion.”

“I’m very good at multitasking.”

He laughs again, and it’s louder this time.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Okay. Four hours. And I will take you out on that date.”

He doesn’t leave after four hours. Instead, he stays until the sun comes up.

The nurses find him there in the morning— asleep in the visitor’s chair, his hand wrapped around yours, the silver lighter sitting on the bedside table.

They don’t ask questions. Thank god.

This is Gotham, after all.

⋆˙⟡ taglist: @coffeelovingreader @cherryseascns @yuunarii-arii @simpingmyassoff (if anyone wants to be added or removed please let me know).

Your voice was free, in a way Jason had never heard before, loud and unrestrained as you sang along to one of your favourite songs. You were off-key, considerably so, and your voice broke every so often, you’d loose your breath mid-lyric, taking a breath before continuing on. All as you didn’t register Jason leaning against the doorframe.

It was one of the small things that tugged at Jason’s brain during his quiet moments, when he was left alone with his thoughts and you weren’t there to reassure him. You loved music, not only did you voice it but there was always music playing in the apartment, either in your headphones or through the speaker.

Whenever Jason was around, you’d mumble the words along, not singing, just your lips silently moving with the pleasant sounds but never singing. Anytime it was just you, he’d hear your voice through the walls but you’d stop the moment you heard his footsteps. You’d smile when you see him, brightly and with love, and go back to just mumbling along.

Even now, the only reason you were still singing was because you were distracted with throwing spices into the pan in front of you, whatever dinner you were cooking up. Jason’s arms were crossed across his chest, such a loving smiles stretched across his lips. Goodness, even if you were the worst singer on the planet, Jason would listen to you screech for hours and days, because all he wanted to do, was to see you free and happy.

You continue singing without care, bringing up the spatula to act as a microphone as you swayed your head to the music and sang your heart out. Then, you caught the slightest movement across the corner of your eyes that causes your entire body to jump backwards. “Fuck!”

“Just me, baby.” Jason holds his hands up defensively, that lovesick smile still pressed on his lips. “Oh my gosh!” You exclaimed, your hand clutching your chest at the fright he gave you. You knew your boyfriend was a vigilante but you never got quite used to how silent his presence was.

Jason holds his hands up still defensively as he pushed off the door and moved through the space, turning to corner to stand behind you. You don’t glare up at him, but glance up nervously like he would say something.“Sorry, princess. ‘M sorry.” Jason apologises again into your ear and his hands surrounded your waist, hugging you from the back as you continued cooking.

You turned your head, pressing a kiss to his cheek, you could feel the dampness on his skin. You lean back just a moment and look at him with a crease between your eyebrows but Jason just…smiles at you. You press another kiss, on the same spot then turned back to the pan.

You continue to hum along to the song as you sway and Jason sways with you. He presses a kiss to your head, warm arms around you and a comfortable atmosphere settled in the kitchen. The song switches as it ends, another song you adored by the same artist, a song that even Jason knew the words to because of how much you played it.

“Why do you stop singing the moment I show up?”

Jason’s soft question startled you slightly, your hand pausing just a moment before you continue stirring. It was your turn, you and him took turns cooking alternate days and it was your turn. He presses another kiss to your earlobe. “Hm?” You prompt him to explain.

“You sing so much, you love singing. But you stop whenever you hear me around. Why?” Jason asks, voice soft to not overpower the music, both of your bodies still swaying. You stay quiet for a few moments, collecting your thoughts and honestly trying not to cry. “‘Cause I sound bad.” Is what you settle on finally.

“No, you don’t.” Jason counters immediately, causing you to snort a laugh as the blatant lie, the sounds in turn causing Jason to frown. “Do not lie to me.” You retort. You loved to sing, but you knew since you were younger that you didn’t sounds quite nice when you did. So you stopped in an audience.

“Okay. You don’t sound bad to me.” Jason whispers again, his voice slightly gravely in your ear. The tips of your lips quirk up as you shake your head. “Nothing about me is bad to you.” You weren’t wrong. You’d never felt so loved, the unconditional nature of Jason’s love unnerved you sometimes.

“Mhm. Exactly.” Jason agreed. The song in the background dips into a calmer tone, a jazzier turn and Jason takes that as a sign to pull the spatula away from your hand, despite your playful chuckle of his name, and he turns you with his gentle calloused hands on your waist, pulling you away from the stove and into a dance.

You giggle, you’ve done this exact dance with him about a hundred times maybe as he spins you and pulls you back into close embrace. Jason leans down, pressing his lips to yours as you smile into the kiss. “You could sound like a velociraptor and I’d still think it’s the most beautiful song in the world.” He murmurs right against your lips without pulling away.

“Fuckin’ loverboy.” You murmur back as you both continue swaying and moving around the kitchen in dance, stealing kisses between musical beats. “Yeah…Your loverboy.” Jason drawls

ᯓ★'s P.S. almost cried as i wrote this and oh my gosh it got SO self indulgent at the end omg forgive me.

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